She didn't wait for agreement. Just placed Katya in my arms with the complete confidence of someone who'd seen me kill men and still trusted me with her infant daughter.
The weight was nothing. Less than the firearms I carried, less than the tactical gear I'd worn for decades. But somehow heavier than anything I'd ever held.
Katya's eyes were open. Unfocused, that newborn haze that meant she couldn't really see me yet. But she seemed to be looking anyway. Assessing. Already calculating the threat level of her massive uncle with the shaved head and the scars and the tattoos that covered everything her swaddling blanket wasn't touching.
"You're not scared of me," I told her quietly. Russian, because it felt right. Because this baby had been named for a Russian grandmother and would grow up speaking the language. "That's stupid. You should be scared. I'm very dangerous."
Katya made a sound. Possibly a burp. Possibly agreement. Probably a burp.
I shifted her closer, cradling her head the way Sophie had shown me, supporting her tiny body against my chest. She was warm. Impossibly small. Her fingers curled around nothing, twitching with the random movements of a nervous system still learning to exist.
"Your father is the Pakhan," I continued, my voice dropping even lower. Meant only for her. "That makes you bratva royalty. People will try to use you. Hurt you. Take you as leverage against the family."
I felt Maya's eyes on me from across the room. Didn't look up. Kept my attention on Katya, on this conversation that was half lullaby and half briefing.
"I won't let them," I said. "That's my job. Your uncle Kostya. I protect this family. I protect you." I pressed a kiss to her forehead, so gentle I barely touched skin. "Anyone who tries to hurt you will die screaming. I promise."
Katya yawned. Tiny mouth, toothless gums, the profound indifference of someone who'd just been promised brutal violence on her behalf.
When I finally looked up, Maya was watching from the doorway to the kitchen. Her arms were crossed, her expression doing something complicated—soft and fierce and full of something I couldn't name.
Sophie appeared beside her. Took in the scene—me with the baby, Maya watching, whatever emotion was passing between us that neither of us was addressing—and her mouth curved into a knowing smile.
The two women shared a look. I'd seen variations of it before, between Sophie and Irina, between Clara and Anya. The look that said "our men are ridiculous and terrifying and we love them anyway."
Sophie leaned close to Maya. Whispered something I couldn't hear from across the room.
Maya's face went pink. Not embarrassed pink—the deeper shade that meant Sophie had hit a nerve. Had asked something that cut close to thoughts Maya had been avoiding.
She responded, still too quiet for me to catch. Shook her head. Deflected.
But then her eyes found mine.
And I knew exactly what Sophie had asked.
When are you two going to contribute to the next generation?
We hadn't talked about it. Not directly. Not in words that meant anything concrete. But it was there, in the way Maya looked at Katya. In the way she'd started reading articles about folic acid and prenatal care when she thought I wasn't paying attention. In the way her hand sometimes drifted to her stomach when she was distracted.
I held her gaze across the crowded dining room. Didn't look away. Let her see whatever she needed to see in my expression—the question I wasn't asking, the answer I already knew, the future I'd never thought I'd have until she'd stumbled into my life with her steady hands and her broken career and her refusal to let anyone die when she could save them.
Then Maks was calling for everyone to come to the table, and the moment passed, and Katya chose that precise second to start crying with the full-throated fury of someone who'd just discovered hunger.
I handed her back to Sophie. The baby settled immediately against her mother's chest, instinct and familiarity overriding whatever distress had caused the outburst.
But I kept watching Maya as we all moved toward our seats.
We hadn't talked about it.
But we would.
Thediningroomtablecould seat fourteen. Tonight it held twelve, and somehow that still felt crowded—not with bodies but with noise, with argument, with the particular chaos that happened when you put three bratva families in the same room with vodka and opinions.
Grandfather Mikhail sat at the head, watching his empire with the satisfied expression of a man who'd built exactly this. Nikolai at his right, closer to Sophie and Katya. Maks on the other side, already three drinks in and getting louder about something that involved his tablet and excessive hand gestures.
I'd taken my usual spot near the door. Old habit. Good for escaping. Maya was beside me, which was the only seat I cared about.
The food was Irina's work—borscht so good it made the Volkovs quiet for whole minutes at a time, black bread, pelmeni, smoked fish, the kind of spread that took hours and tasted like love converted into calories. Wine and vodka passed back and forth, glasses refilling before they were empty.
